


where the road meets

by ilaeth



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Flirting, Growing Apart, Growing Up Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oikawa's birthday, Olympics, Queerplatonic Relationships, Smoking, University, iwaoi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilaeth/pseuds/ilaeth
Summary: Iwaizumi and Oikawa grow up, grow apart, and manage to find one another on the home stretch.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of the most gruelling tasks i've taken on in my time writing for a long time!  
> i had meant to post this on the 20th, when it was oikawa's birthday and the finale of haikyuu was published, but it wasn't done in time and just kept getting longer and longer and longer but we got there in the end. i hope you enjoy!  
> more notes at the end!

Iwaizumi has always been bold ever since he was young; he had never beaten around the bush when it came to telling his parents he’d accidentally thrown up on the sofa over one too many packets of Skittles, nor when it came to introducing himself to new people. He considers himself someone headstrong who never follows the crowd when it comes to taking orders, and strives towards bettering other people’s lives before his own.

He’s also generally a pretty forgiving man: he hadn’t complained when Oikawa suggested they all do a study group on a Sunday, of all days, and had even woken up at hell-freezing-over o’clock just so they could snag a good table between the OAP’s book club and the couple who play footsie beneath the table. Iwaizumi, for all his good samaritan work at his grandmother’s allotment, does not have a mean-spirited bone in his body.

Oikawa, however, makes it hard for him to keep on that route. 

_ > wher r u _

Iwaizumi stares down at his phone with enough fury to make the screen crack.

“I’m going to kill him,” he announces, the splintered end of a pencil chewed down to the graphite between his teeth. From their left a group of women poring over a crocheted place-mat shoot Iwaizumi a horrified look. “I’m going to make sure he can’t reproduce.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. Imagine little Oikawas running around.” Matsukawa’s nose wrinkles. Iwaizumi lets out a short groan, and Hanamaki continues, “Telling people they aren’t pretty enough to be on his level. Maybe breaking a few hearts here and there. Causing car crashes as he stands in the middle of the road to be admired.”

It’s only their second time hanging out as a group outside of volleyball practice but Iwaizumi feels like he’s known both Hanamaki and Matsukawa since childhood. He isn’t in any of their classes but he’d be damned to say he wasn’t intimidated at first glance during Seijoh initiation; Hanamaki with his long, gangly limbs and Matsukawa with the tenor of his voice. And then Oikawa to finish the quad, popular and attractive enough to warrant a fanclub. Iwaizumi feels like white bread next to them; perfectly average and ordinary. 

< _Dilemma._

All three of them look at Iwaizumi's phone that pings from their side. One of the knitting ladies scowls to her friends at the sound. 

> _u’d best fuckng turn up right now_

_ > ur 10 mins late _

_ < (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ Where is your heart!!!!! _

_ > do not care _

_ > be here in 10 mins or were egging ur house _

“Nice,” Matsukawa says, looking over Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed like a rich son on his way to play polo, Oikawa rocks up to the library. He’s waving and smiling to three faces who meet him with looks of hatred. 

“Bonjour!” he greets, tugging out an empty chair from beneath the table. He smooths down any dirt from his thighs before pleating his fingers and casting a look to the berth of the table. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re half an hour late!” Iwaizumi hisses, slapping the palm of his hand down on the table. To his left Matsukawa offers sheepish apologies to the knitting table for their commotion. “ _You’re_ the one who suggested we meet up this early to study, let alone on a fucking _Sunday,_ and you have the nerve to turn up late?”

Oikawa’s face pulls into a pout, totally unapologetic. He rests his chin atop the pleat of his fingers and sighs through his nose. “I had a _dilemma_. Let me live.”

“Let you—let you _live?_ Oikawa, I am four seconds away from castrating you.”

“Take it easy, you two.” Hanamaki shuffles his chair closer. It grates against the floor and echoes throughout the entire building. Matsukawa looks like he wants nothing more than to sink through the floor to escape the looks they’re gathering. “Oikawa, why were you late?”

The smug expression on his face wavers. He offers no immediate reply, merely sitting there in silence until his demeanour cracks and he slumps. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he says. 

“Can’t be worse than when you got your braces done.”

“That was _not_ funny!”

Hanamaki snorts out of his nose. “God, I wish I’d seen that. I can’t believe you chose pink, Oikawa.”

“Right,” he decides, childish and offended, “that’s it. You’re not seeing it.”

All three chime in in a chorus of groans. “Come on,” Matsukawa eggs, the only one speaking in an appropriate whisper. Oikawa’s nose wrinkles as does the acne hidden beneath concealer and powder. 

For all that Oikawa likes to maintain his untouchable social persona, Iwaizumi can see right through him. He deflects insecurity with bravado. _Always has done,_ Iwaizumi thinks, with how he dresses himself up the more he feels down. The cream-coloured sweater he has on is the same one he wears on dates because he knows he looks good in it. Iwaizumi can read him like a book. “What’s up?”

Oikawa maintains his pout for one beat longer until he crumples in on himself like a deflated balloon. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

The three purse their lips and lie through their teeth. “Promise.”

He keeps their gaze for a few more beats until he leans down to tug open his bag and rifle through the contents inside. Iwaizumi has already clenched his jaw in preparation not to laugh for whatever Oikawa’s going to pull out. 

As he sits back up he holds a slim glasses case in the palm of his hand. He opens it and the case creaks. Oikawa peers down to the inside with a look of disgust. The silence stretches until he reaches inside, unfolds the glasses, and slips them on his nose.

Hanamaki is the first to break the peace as he snorts hard enough to burst a blood vessel.

“Shut up, Makki,” Oikawa seethes, peering at him over the wire-frame rim of his glasses. “Shut your stupid, little mouth.”

“You—” he coughs into his elbow and wheezes his laugh. To his left Iwaizumi has his head buried in his folded arms, and Matsukawa is biting his fist. “You look like an old lady.”

Iwaizumi knows he shouldn’t be laughing, he _really_ does, because he knows how fragile Oikawa’s ego is and has suffered through enough silent-treatments from him to tell what offends him and what doesn’t. Maybe it’s something to do with the lack of sleep, or the fact that he’s finally in a group of people who accept _him_ instead of a mere tag-along of Oikawa’s, but Iwaizumi laughs out a sound that sounds like tires breaking against wet tarmac. Matsukawa, to his left, has tears in his eyes. “I am leaving,” Oikawa announces, though he makes no move, pushing the glasses up his nose in an attempt to own it rather than hide from it. “You’re all horrible friends. This is the reason no-body hangs out with you three other than me.”

“Oikawa, you look like the receptionist from Monsters Inc.”

“Oh my god.” 

“ _Always watching,_ Mike Wazowski.”

“I’m actually leaving,” Oikawa repeats, snatching the glasses off his nose with a huff. He rises to his full-height and points an accusatory finger to all three of their red faces, bursting at the seams from trying to keep it in, his tone seething. “When you all die I’m going to empty my grandmother's catheter on your gravestones.”

“Wait, wait, don’t go!” Hanamaki cries. “We need to see those bad boys in action as you berate us over AP Chem!”

Later, hunched over Iwaizumi’s Playstation, Oikawa turns to him. “Are they really that bad?” he asks, the blue light from the screen reflecting on the lenses and bleaching his skin white. 

He pauses the game and shifts to look at Oikawa in careful consideration. This Oikawa, dressed down in an old Babymetal shirt and alien-print pyjama pants, is miles away from the prim-and-proper model student he presents as in daylight. Iwaizumi had been terrified that the transition from middle-school to high-school would have Oikawa change himself so he’d fit better in with the popular crowd he’s always searched to be a part of, but here, sitting in his childhood bedroom in their pyjamas, the initial worries feel far away. This is his favourite Oikawa; the one he can be most vulnerable with; who he can talk to about topics safe for closed doors in hushed voices. 

“Yes,” Iwaizumi says, deciding to tell the truth rather than a white lie, because he’s always been honest and Oikawa will be angry if he beats around the bush. “But they’re just glasses. Who cares if they look silly?”

“They sent the wrong frames,” Oikawa tells him, pulling them from his face to peer down to. His eyes are clouded, brows knit, and Iwaizumi recognises it as nothing less than hatred. Oikawa hates being seen as stupid, after all. “I don’t want to get made fun of.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes roll. “Everyone loves you,” he tells him, which is only _part_ -true. Iwaizumi has seen the way Shinzen look at him when he’s having a good day with his setting, “you could roll up to school in a bin bag and your fan-club would still compliment your outfit.”

The corner of Oikawa’s smile twitches at that. He hesitates, gaze struck on the glasses in his hands, torn between throwing them to the side or putting up with them. 

Without hesitation Iwaizumi reaches out to clean the lenses with the corner of his shirt before slipping them up and onto the bridge of Oikawa’s nose. As he reaches out to make sure they’re level he can feel Oikawa’s gaze on him, watching but never speaking, like he’s studying Iwaizumi beneath a magnifying glass. It’s quiet for one, perfect moment, the both of them stuck in a kind of limbo that leaves Iwaizumi feeling boneless and lost, a warmth filling him from the inside out that he gets when he’s ill and his mother strokes his hair from his forehead.

For all that Iwaizumi’s good with reading Oikawa there are brief moments where he can’t tell what’s wanted from him. Here, lit only by the poor LED of his television, Oikawa’s gaze is eager and bright, and Iwaizumi feels floored by it. His tongue feels swollen and dry; like he couldn’t gulp even if he wanted to, pinned down by Oikawa’s eyes as he waits for something Iwaizumi doesn’t know how to give.

“Besides,” Iwaizumi blurts, reaching up to scruff Oikawa’s fringe up with his fist, “those glasses are the least of your worries. I’m more concerned about that grave-yard in your mouth.”

The moment shatters. Oikawa blinks and then he’s back to his dramatic self, reaching up to cover his mouth in horror. Iwaizumi isn’t sure if he’s glad of it or not. “My teeth are perfectly straight!” he retaliates. “Those braces did me wonders, even if you all find it very funny to talk about.”

“Medicine can’t fix everything. You still look like you could act as a bear-trap if you—”

Iwaizumi squawks as a pillow is thrown at his face. He looks up when his vision clears to Oikawa, pillow clutched in hand, standing up and over Iwaizumi. He looks dorky, painfully beautiful even without his makeup and hair gel. Oikawa, with a sharp grin, wallops him in the cheek with the pillow again. “Now who’s tough?” he taunts. 

The buzzing behind his brain clears. “You’re on,” Iwaizumi threatens, picking up one of Oikawa’s plushies. He winds his arm up before whipping Oikawa in the backs of his thighs, receiving a scream in return.

The next day, a dreary morning, Iwaizumi’s outside Oikawa’s house at half-seven, like always. When the door opens Oikawa’s got his shoulders hunched up an inch and his lips pursed to a straight line. As soon as he steps up to the gate he meets Iwaizumi’s eyes with a plead, and Iwaizumi is weak to resist. “You look fine,” he tells Oikawa, reaching up to fix the wonky tilt of his glasses. 

His shoulders relax, his lips flush into colour, and his dimple deepens. “Let’s go, Iwa-chan,” he says, stepping out from his garden to the walkway up to Seijoh, and Iwaizumi follows, his ears warm beneath the loop of his scarf.


	2. Chapter 2

“Iwaizumi-senpai,” Watari says, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, “Kindaichi’s thrown up again.”

“Tell Oikawa to clean it up.”

Watari pulls a face. “He told me to tell you to.”

The match hasn’t even started but Iwaizumi is already fed up.

He wouldn’t care so much had he not already had a bad day, with waking up late and having to clean up after Kindaichi had thrown up for the first time on the bus, but having to deal with a gaggle of hecklers from the opposing team is the icing on the shit cake. He knows that if he has to spare one more look over to those second-years conniving in the corner he’s going to get put on the bench and they’re going to be sent to the nurse’s office.

Iwaizumi double-checks the rostre when a voice, muttered just within earshot, pulls his attention: “Ooh, be careful. If you say one word bad about their captain his little boyfriend will beat you up.”

Despite it all, Iwaizumi wonders why he’s more frustrated over being called ‘little’ than the blatant taunt of ‘boyfriend’.

He swivells from where he stands, pulling a numbered vest over his gym kit, to the three second-years at the other side of the net. They’re cuddled together like Emperor penguins and snicker like hyenas.

His eyes narrow a fraction. One blanches, one’s mouth closes, and the other scowls, muttering something else to his teammates.

It’s not like Iwaizumi isn’t used to it. It’s common practice before a game starts to rile up the other teammates if you’re a poor player to begin with (which Iwaizumi doesn’t consider himself to be, thank you very much) so it doesn’t go to his heart, but even if this wasn’t in the middle of a volleyball game, Iwaizumi doesn’t think he minds as much as he should. Oikawa’s attractiveness is horrifically outweighed by his personality. Iwaizumi would much rather spend a night sharing a tent with a grizzly bear than Oikawa, but even after considering that long, long, long list of cons vs. pros, he still doesn’t  _ mind _ the word boyfriend. Hypothetically, of course.

Iwaizumi would rather burn alive than date him but everyone and their dog knows that Oikawa’s attractive. He can still appreciate a nice pair of shoes even if they don’t fit him. 

He thinks back to an afternoon spent at the cinema a few months ago on a trip to watch their sixth rerun of Jurassic World. Oikawa was dead-set determined to get away with overfilling the popcorn box with butter despite Iwaizumi’s vocal protests. 

He’s never shied beneath public scrutiny but Oikawa does, and Iwaizumi wondered if he could see the group of housewives by the drinks stand shaking their heads at their linked arms. He wondered whether or not Oikawa would care. A Christmas ago one aunt had made a sideways comment about Iwaizumi and Oikawa dating, with how much time they spent with one another, and it had haunted him for days on end like a ghost.

The thoughts themselves didn’t bother him, but the fact that he didn’t care did. If Iwaizumi thought about it (which he definitely didn’t, at all) he reckoned Oikawa wasn’t the worst person in the world to date given the small pool of girls he spoke to in class, but there’s still an unpleasant taste that followed the thoughts in their footstep because he knew he  _ shouldn’t _ be thinking about it. He’s seventeen and he’s well aware he swings both sides of the roundabout,  _ had _ known since the end of his first year at Seijoh when he’d been kissed by a second year from the football club, but Oikawa is  _ Oikawa _ . He’s his best friend, who’s touchy-feely with everyone, including Hanamaki when he hadn’t showered after a match. Besides, he has a girlfriend.

Iwaizumi tried not to think about it. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, tearing him from his spiralling worries with a pout. “You’re awfully quiet today.”

“Just waiting for you to ruin the cardboard box, you  _ moron _ .”

The pout dissolved into a scowl. “They’re waterproof, I’ll have you know.” Oikawa’s finger stabbed the butter pump as it sputtered the last of its refill. Iwaizumi could see butter leaking from the bottom of the box. A vein twitched in his forehead. “For someone with barely-average grades like you, Iwa-chan, even  _ you _ didn’t know that?”

“Oh, sorry. I don’t exactly get daught the aerodynamics and design specifications of fucking popcorn boxes in Physics class.”

“Common sense, Iwa-chan! Even your little walnut brain should be able to compute that.”

“Why, you little—”

There was a gentle tap to Oikawa’s elbow. The expression on his face slipped into that of common politeness as he turned to face a small girl, his lips tinged blue from his slushie melting in his right hand. There was a pink envelope pinched between her hands, outstretched towards Oikawa. Iwaizumi recognized her as one of the girls in his fanclub.

She drew in a deep breath, steeled her nerves, and opened her mouth to speak before stopping in her tracks. Like a kettle on a stove she grew hot from head to toe, bowed, then apologised: “Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you two were—sorry!”

Both he and Oikawa watched her scurry off back to her group of friends badly hidden behind a potted plant. Oikawa reached inside the box and tugged out a handful of soggy popcorn. He chewed, swallowed, and took a long sip of his slushie. “What was that about?”

“I think she thinks we’re on a date.”

“Gross.” Oikawa passed his slushie over to Iwaizumi, who took a sip from the same straw. “I’d never date someone with a single-figure IQ number.”

“I’ll suck all the syrup out of this goddamn drink if you don’t take it back.”

“Nooo! Iwa-chan!”

Later, brushing the blue stain off his teeth with two lots of toothpaste, he thought back to what his aunt had said and Oikawa’s reaction. 

Iwaizumi spat into the sink basin and swilled it clean. “Stop thinking about it,” he scalded, looking back up to the pimply face of his seventeen-year-old self. Even if he didn’t mind sharing a bed with Oikawa, or saving the pieces of chicken on his plate for Oikawa to pick at, or having to stay up late just so he didn’t end up exhausting himself at practice, Iwaizumi told himself that it was just common courtesy. That he’d do it for anyone else, but he’s never been very good at lying.

He raises from his crouch near the water bottles and gym bags and calls: “You got a problem?” 

The three jump out of their skin at being directly spoken to. With that same bored look, he continues: “If you have something to say, say it to my face.”

To his surprise the tallest of the three, the one who had been sniggering, speaks up first. One is awkwardly trying to walk away, to not look part of the scene that’s drawing attention, and the other is suddenly very interested in the label on his water bottle. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

_ Here we go, _ Iwaizumi thinks.

With a sigh he sets down his own bottle and crosses the net, lifting it up and above his head. The commotion of warmup is enough to drown out the exchange but Iwaizumi doesn’t miss the feel of familiar eyes following him as he crosses the court to stand toe-to-toe with the loud-mouth from the opposing team. “Go on, then.”

“Leave it, Eiji,” one mutters, tugging his sleeve to head back to the court. “You’ll get us in trouble again.”

“If you’ve got the balls to be laughing at something, I’d love to hear it,” Iwaizumi deadpans. “I like a good joke, after all. Go on. Spit it out.”

“Gentlemen,” Long, wiry arms hook over both his own shoulder and the boy’s. Iwaizumi’s lip curls at the sight of Hanamaki’s languid grin. “Let’s keep it PG. Kids are watching.”

“Didn’t say anything. It was him who started it.” A huff, and the boy swivels on his heel. “Keep your dog on a lead.”

“Dog?” 

Iwaizumi reaches out and grabs the second-year by the scruff of his collar, tugging him back with enough force to tear stitching. The second year stumbles onto his ass, catching himself with his palms, and looks up with mortification as Hanamaki raises a hand to the sideline at Seijoh and Iwaizumi leans down into his space. “Watch your mouth. If you don’t have the bite, don’t bark.”

“Alright, alright, break it up you two. All this testosterone’s going to get someone hot and bothered.” Hanamaki eases Iwaizumi away by the elbow, who shrugs him off but still walks alongside him back to their side of the net. To his right he watches the manager from the opposing team march over with fury towards the second-years, and as he heads back to their bench, he can hear the tongue-lashing she delivers.

“God, I hate mouthy kids,” Iwaizumi mumbles to himself, crouching down back to his duffel-bag to look for the Deep-Heat he’d been searching for initially. He notices a few parents staring from the seating area, as well as the shrill sound of Oikawa’s  _ He what?! _ but it’s all ignored. Exhaustion is a deep ache in his bones that he can feel with each shift of his body. What he wouldn’t do to curl up and sleep for millenia.

Bliss lasts briefly. With quick squeaks of his shoes Oikawa marches over from the crowd of girls he’d been taking selfies with to stand over Iwaizumi, a sour look on his face and his hands on his hips.

Silence. Iwaizumi calms himself so as to not punch the look off of Oikawa’s face. They stay in the limbo of  _ you speak first _ until Iwaizumi grumbles: “What?”

“What?  _ What?  _ You just assaulted a player!”

“Assaulted? Oh, grow up, Oikawa. I hardly touched him.”

“You swept him off his feet like a rug had been pulled from beneath him!” 

“Big whoop. Someone had to put them in their place.”

“A place that is decidedly  _ not _ yours to put them in.” Oikawa’s voice lowers to a hiss. “Have you lost your mind?!”

Kyoutani, sitting to his left, gives him a thumbs up. “Cool, Iwaizumi-senpai.” 

“Don’t encourage him, Kyouken-chan!”

With a sigh Iwaizumi rises from his crouch. He brushes down dirt from his knees and meets Oikawa’s gaze with tired eyes, who’s turning pink in the face from frustrations. “Listen—”

“No,  _ you _ listen to  _ me, _ Iwa-chan!” Iwaizumi shouldn’t laugh, he  _ knows _ he shouldn’t, because Oikawa is very clearly upset and he doesn’t want to upset him before a practice match but he’s running on three hours of sleep and knows there’s a smirk twitching the corner of his lips. He can feel it. “You could get kicked off the team for something like that!”

“As if. You really think anyone cares about some petty fight enough to kick a teammate off?”

_ “Yes!” _

“Well, I don’t. And I think you’re being a tad over-dramatic.”

“Don’t you patronise me.” Oikawa points a perfectly filed and manicured finger in his direction before jabbing his chest. “You wild animal; control yourself before you screw up the rest of the team. We have one more away match before we leave. Don’t fuck it up for us.”

Ever the peacemaker Hanamaki re-introduces himself into the conversation with the added aid of Matsukawa behind him. “Easy, you two. Match is about to start.”

“I am very angry right now, Makki-chan,” Oikawa states, finger held in a rigid point at an unblinking Iwaizumi, “and I don’t want to have our  _ ace _ pulled off before the game even starts for shoving another player on the court.”

“He deserved it,” Kyoutani piques up.

“Would you be  _ quiet,  _ Mad-Dog-chan?”

“Okay, okay,” Iwaizumi holds his palms up in defeat. It does little to ease the pinch of a frown on Oikawa’s expression. “I got offended, gave him a shove, boo-hoo, bad move on my part. Slap my wrist after practice. For now, let’s just get going, yeah?”

He feels like he’s dodged a bullet when the whistle blows for the match to start. It comes right back to bite him in the ass when the evening rolls around.

A dry bar of soap is launched at his head with pinpoint accuracy. Iwaizumi yelps, spinning around under the lockeroom’s shower spray to watch a very angry Oikawa march over. His expression shifts from surprise to a non-verbalised  _ here we go again _ as, pink-cheeked and heavy-soled, Oikawa stomps into the room, a scarce foot away from the shower’s overhead spray.

“You—you— _ you _ —”

“Take your time.”   


“—you  _ idiot! _ ”

“There we go.”

“You uncultured, insensitive, rash, big hulking crazy person!”

Iwaizumi leans down to pick up the soap before lathering it up in the palm of his hand and using it to clean his forearms. “If you keep shouting like that they’ll kick us out from the gym, and—”

“Be serious for a moment, Iwa-chan!”

It takes him back. Iwaizumi stops where he’s massaging a bruise on his arm to meet Oikawa’s eyes head-on, and only then does Iwaizumi realise just how angry Oikawa is. He’s worked himself up to the brink of tears which, for as often as it happens, pulls his chest into a tight knot.

Iwaizumi turns in the cubicle to wash the suds off before stopping the water flow and sighing. “Why are you so upset?”

“Because you could’ve gotten suspended, you idiot!”

“Okay, okay! Enough with the insults!”

Oikawa throws the towel hung over the curtain’s rack at Iwaizumi’s face with that same fury he had with the soap. It misses him but he manages to catch it before it flutters to the floor. Had he been on thicker ice he’d have shouted back but Iwaizumi, despite what Oikawa says, isn’t stupid, and doesn’t want to be the bad guy after already making him cry. He scrubs his hair dry with it as Oikawa gathers himself, reduced now to pacing up and down the showers, before speaking: “Listen, I shouldn’t have riled myself up back then and confronted them. They’re just kids, at the end of the day, like we were, and you were worse with Tobio.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to complain but Iwaizumi holds his hand up to show he isn’t finished. “But it isn’t your job to babysit me. I acted on impulse, and I would take responsibility for whatever happened had the situation escalated. I wasn’t going to—y’know, rip their heads off, or anything.”

“But you could have been suspended, Iwa-chan.” He’s stopped pacing now but his fingers are worrying themselves over one another. He watches as Iwaizumi wraps the towel around his waist. “You seem to forget that you’re the ace. For as much as you’re modest, you sure don’t consider the ripple effect of your actions, do you?”

He knows Oikawa is right even if he won’t outwardly admit it, but Iwaizumi is just as stubborn as Oikawa, which is one of his biggest downfalls. For all that they know he’s in the wrong he doesn’t even attempt to verbalise it. Instead, Iwaizumi shifts past him into the changing rooms to slip on clothes from his duffel bag and avoids his gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

“There isn’t much time for it to.” It was the topic Iwaizumi was trying to avoid; the reason he felt guilty less so for pushing the boys but more so for the consequences. They’ve got less than two months left in school. Less than four together before Iwaizumi heads off to college. He’s been counting down the days like a ticking time bomb.

Iwaizumi grumbles. He uncaps his deodorant and sprays it a few times, still avoiding Oikawa’s gaze, even though he’s practically begging to be looked back at in return. Iwaizumi can practically feel his eyes on the back of his head. “I let it get to me. I don’t know. I haven’t had much sleep. You fucking napped like a baby when Kindaichi threw up his breakfast on the back seat.”

Oikawa at least has the decency to look guilty about that. “Sorry.”

“No—no, don’t apologise.” Iwaizumi caps the deodorant, sets it aside, and runs his fingers through the damp hair at his hairline. “Sorry. Grumpy.”

He tugs his underwear up over the damp on his thighs before hiking sweatpants up, too. Oikawa leans against the lockers, already showered and dressed, arms crossed over his chest and hair mussed. He watches the muscles of Iwaizumi’s shoulders ripple as his shirt is tugged on over his head. “Let’s just...make the best of the next few months, yeah?”

Oikawa nods, slow at first, before relenting with a sigh. “Yeah. Sorry. I hate brats like that, too. What did they say to you, anyway?”

“Nothing important,” Iwaizumi says, fingers twisting over the buttons on his shirt to thread them through the holes. With little patience Iwaizumi stuffs his clothes back into his duffel bag and slips his bare feet into his shoes. “Have you wrapped your knee up? Don’t you think I didn’t see you limp towards the toilets.”

Oikawa doesn’t reply to that but he doesn’t need to; past the gaze averted to the doorway and shamelessly guilty look on his face Iwaizumi’s eyes merely roll. He dumps his bag back down, rifles around for the ACE bandages he keeps for emergencies, and motions for Oikawa to come. “Sit down. God, you’re so irresponsible, you know that? Talking about me getting kicked off the team when we’d be in the shit without you here, Shittykawa.”

“My knee is fine,” he complains, though he sits, thigh-to-thigh with Iwaizumi on the changing room’s bench. He rolls up his pant leg as high as it will go before swinging his leg up and over onto Iwaizumi’s lap. “You’re such a mother hen, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi pinches the skin above his shin. Oikawa yelps. “Enough of that. Now, shut up and let me help you.”

* * *

Up ahead the sky is cloudy, shivering over the moon, suspending them both in darkness. There’s one light on the rooftop and it’s just over the door, a good few meters from where they sit by the fence. They’re relying on the odd sliver of moonlight and the orange tips of Aya’s cigarettes which is pretty pathetic given the alternative of just going home, but his mother is out working late it’s better than the gymnasium so he doesn’t complain. “What a night,” Iwaizumi muses.

“What a fuckin’ night,” Aya repeats, exhaling out her cigarette smoke.

Beside her Iwaizumi sighs, in equally low spirits, and leans back on his palms. 

He’s always liked Aya the same way someone admires an upperclassman; she’s cool, pushes the boundaries of the school’s dress code, and funny. She’s also his date for prom, or at the very least has been for the last half an hour.

“We look like two old men who shout at kids on their way to school,” he remarks, lifting the can of beer they’re sharing to his mouth to take a swig.

She laughs at that. “You can be the angry wife, and I’ll be the husband who shows his face around the neighborhood every few years who tells creepy stories about how his son vanished.”

“Who’s name are we taking? Yours or mine?”

“We killed a couple, stole their identity, and lived on as them. No tax, no problem.”

He snorts hard enough the beer shoots through his nose. He coughs through his laughter, earning a wide-palmed slap on the back from Aya who tries her best to get the fizz from his lungs but nearly breaks a rib in the process. She’s the captain of the girls’ volleyball team and has arms that rival Iwaizumi’s. 

“It hasn’t been all that shitty of a night,” Iwaizumi says, eyes sparkling, a reply to her remark from earlier.

She rolls hers. “Don’t you get sentimental on me now.”

“Not getting sentimental! Just saying—I mean, considering we both got dumped.”

“You can say that again.” She clinks their cans at the rim. “Where’s your man of the hour, anyway? You’re usually like two peas in a pod.”

“Eh,” Iwaizumi says, trying to pass off his hurt as nonchalance even though his chest has been throbbing fit to mimic a stroke. Oikawa had picked up his girlfriend before Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and himself left earlier in the evening so he hadn’t seen him yet save for a moment on the dance-floor. This time his girlfriend’s part of the athletics team, with long legs and a stylish bob-cut. She’s gorgeous; not Iwaizumi’s type, but the type of pretty that draws attention from people shopping in the same aisle as you. When Iwaizumi had seen her both she and Oikawa had on matching colours; he’d been twirling her around the dance floor, and Iwaizumi thought he was going to be sick with how furiously his heart was beating. “He’s with his girlfriend.”

“Is it the same one as last month?”

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi raises the can to his mouth and takes another sip because he really isn’t drunk enough for this conversation. He knows he’s jealous but doesn’t know why and it’s been eating him alive for the last few months because every time he tried to come up with a logical reason as to why he finds himself snapping at the girls he brings to their lunch table, he’s come up empty. Tonight, though, more than anything, he’s angry that he doesn’t have the same confidence that Oikawa, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki have. He knows they’re downstairs with someone and it sours Iwaizumi’s gut enough for him to taste bile.

Aya has eyes that make him feel like he’s a book being read, secret by secret, and Iwaizumi doesn’t want to be told the answer to a question he isn’t ready to pose. Instead, he feigns innocence. “I wonder if they’ll stay together this time.”

“Oh, as if. The only person who can keep up with him is you, Iwaizumi.”   


“You aren’t the first to say that.”

“Then why don’t you just ask him out?”

Iwaizumi mentally kicks himself for ever bringing up this conversation. _I should've never befriended a gossip,_ he curses. “I had joked about it  _ in passing _ once to you, and now you won’t drop it.”   


“I’m not joking, though. Think about it,” she says, raising her forefinger to point at him. “Most people already  _ think _ you’re dating—”

“—which doesn’t count—”

“—and you like him. Who’s to say he wouldn’t like you back? I mean, come  _ on _ , you’re basically already married.”

Iwaizumi flushes beneath his collar.

He feels like he has pre-game nerves in the aftermath of her words; like he’s expecting everything that’s accumulated over the last few months to reach its peak here. His stomach flips over itself and there’s pins and needles in his feet, and one wrong breath could make Iwaizumi throw up on his nice shoes his mother got him for his birthday. 

For all that her reassurance is nice, Iwaizumi has set himself up to fail since his first year at Seijoh. There’s always been a nag at the back of his mind that reminds him just how nice it is to spend evenings sharing the same blanket with him on the sofa, and how bad Oikawa looks in the mornings but it’s still charming despite it all. It was textbook pining but he still doesn’t want to admit it. Once the cat is out of the bag he knows it won’t go back in. 

She shuffles over on her hands before raising up to her knees and asking: “Wanna kiss?”

Iwaizumi’s mouth twists. “Why?”

“Everyone kisses at prom, right? Who cares if we only became dates tonight.” She raises the body of the can in a cheers. “You like Oikawa, and I fancy his girlfriend. Fuck traditionalism.”

The word ‘like’ feels underwhelming because he’s always loved Oikawa in the purest form. It’s the swell in his heart when he sees Oikawa land a good serve, or when he cracks up at a joke Iwaizumi makes, or when he gets good test results over a subject he’s been struggling at.

He thinks of Oikawa, downstairs, grinning into his girlfriend's hair as she spins around the dancefloor, and wonders if he's laughing at her jokes too. He  _ really _ isn’t drunk enough for this.

“Sure,” he says, shifting a little closer. There’s a pause between them both as he looks up at her, bare-faced and tipsy. “I have no idea how to do this.” 

“Me neither,” she admits, reaching out to cup his cheeks. Her palms are warm and soft but they’re too small, he thinks, and they miss the calluses setting a ball creates on the high points of your skin. “C’mere.”

It’s gentle and timid and a little damp but it’s nice, Iwaizumi supposes, despite knowing he couldn’t get lost in this even if he tried. He shifts up a little to rest his hand against the curve of her neck and she leans closer, taking the lead, crowding up over him. 

The door to the roof swings open and hits the opposite wall with a bang. Oikawa stumbles out, clutching the brick doorframe, and peers into the darkness. “Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi breaks the kiss with a wet sound as both their heads turn to see the source of the sound. “Ah, shit,” he says. It’s Aya who lets go first, as if giving permission, shoving Iwaizumi gently on the shoulder to get up. He doesn’t miss her smile as he rises from his seat to meet Oikawa half-way in his drunken attempt at walking. His hair is mussed, stuck to his forehead, and he’s got a flush on his cheeks like he’s run a marathon. “Come here.”

“Been looking all over for you,” Oikawa says, catching himself on the lapels of Iwaizumi’s suit. He pats over the material idly. “Aya,” he greets, who’s standing up from the floor and dusting off her slacks with a grin peeled across her cheeks.

“Oikawa,” she returns. Her hand comes up to give Iwaizumi’s shoulder a pat. "Rough night, buddy?"

"Eh." He shrugs. Iwaizumi doesn't want to think about the way he gives her a once-over, like an opponent sizing up an opponent, but it's difficult _not_ to. He gives Oikawa a pinch on the bicep and it manages to do the trick—Oikawa's always been selfish, after all, and doesn't like people monopolizing his time even when he does it openly to others. 

Oikawa watches her leave with unblinking eyes, leaning more of his weight into where he’s braced against Iwaizumi’s chest until she’s gone and he collapses entirely. “Let’s get you sat down,” Iwaizumi chides, reaching out to hook one of Oikawa’s arms up over his own shoulder to shuffle them to a space near the roof’s fence.

There’s dry cumbles of mascara beneath his eyes, sitting on his skin from where he’s rubbed his face. Iwaizumi reaches out to stroke it away, and Oikawa leans into him, eyes fluttering closed. “How much did you drink?” he asks, reaching out to wave a hand in front of Oikawa’s hazy eyes. 

“She dumped me,” Oikawa tells him, brows knit with the gentle pressure of Iwaizumi’s thumbs, “and I don’t know why I don’t care.”

Without missing a beat Iwaizumi shifts Oikawa so he’s sat down on his bum and he’s leaning sideways into Iwaizumi, who braces them both upright. Up above a gust of wind carries the clouds from the moon and it shines down, reflecting against their shoes and Oikawa’s cufflinks. "You didn't answer my question."

"Too much," he replies. "She told me I don't spend enough time with her, or something, or that I'm too into volleyball. Am I? Is that why they keep dumping me?"

Iwaizumi’s hand reaches out to comb the sweaty hairs at the base of Oikawa’s neck. They’re soft like feathers and slip through the gaps in his fingers. “You’re drunk,” he reminds him, “and emotions don’t work properly when you’re drunk.”

“You’re right.” Iwaizumi can feel his eyelashes flutter against the skin of his neck. He fights back the urge to shiver hard enough to pop a blood vessel. “Hey, Iwa-chan, do you like Aya?”

“Not like that,” he says, honest, his fingers skirting up to stroke the wispy hairs of Oikawa’s sideburns behind his ear. Like a cat he nestles closer, lips parted just a touch, swollen and pink. 

“But you were kissing her.”

He breathes a sigh out his nose. “It wasn’t like that, I guess. We were just kissing. As friends.”

“Huh,” Oikawa nods, slow. “I’m your friend, right?”

_ Jesus _ , Iwaizumi thinks. He scruffs his knuckles against the feathery hair at the base of Oikawa’s head. “You’re drunk. I won’t kiss you when you’re drunk.”

“Why not?”

In a moment of confidence stemming from the alcohol Aya had brought, Iwaizumi says: “Ask me when you’re sober,” and presses a chaste kiss to the skin that meets Oikawa’s hairline. 

He’s sleeping within minutes flat, drooling a damp patch against Iwaizumi’s dress shirt and snoring loud enough to wake up the village. Iwaizumi tilts his head against the one on his shoulder and tries not to think too hard about the ache in his chest.

* * *

Up ahead the road sign to Tokyo hangs much less like a guillotine than Iwaizumi had come to prepare himself for.

As he looks out the window there's no crashing meteors or trees on fire or anything that comes close to the End of The World like it had been built up to be. It’s a sensible twenty degrees, he’s wearing his comfiest pair of socks, and to his left sits Oikawa with his sunglasses in his hairline, looking like a bad teenage film’s heart-throb. Iwaizumi thinks it’s suitable to have Oikawa drive him to the train station for his one-way ticket to university; that the person he’s been with since day one is the same one to see him off. 

There was never that impending doom of their friendship ending once he moved to university because he knew that one way or another they’d find each other again sooner or later. Iwaizumi thinks he could migrate to Tibet and Oikawa would present himself at his doorstep within the same month through sheer luck. Be it supernatural phenomena or pure coincidence both seem to end up on the same path even after parting at the fork in the road.

Iwaizumi’s head tips back to the headrest, tilting just enough to watch Oikawa from the corner of his eye. The roof is down on his car so his hair is pushed from his eyes. The sunglasses have fallen, resting on the bridge of his nose, slipped down the slope enough for him to meet Iwaizumi’s gaze in the rear-view mirror when he realises he’s being stared at. “Excited?”

“Desperate to get away from you.”

“Wow, okay, rude. I even used my best cologne!”

“Oh, great. Suddenly I regret my plans. Time to cancel university.”

Oikawa’s eyes roll. He raises the hand from the gear stick to reach out and pinch Iwaizumi’s cheek. “Little grumpy Iwa-chan. You know you’ll miss me.”

“Which part? Your stale breath or dry elbows?”

“I brush my teeth  _ three _ times a day. I  _ beg _ to differ!”

“With what? Wax? Those bad boys are yellow enough to get mistaken for corn.”

A horrified gasp. Iwaizumi barks a laugh from his side, relaxing further into the passenger’s seat at the sight of Oikawa’s expression.  _ This feels more natural than anything in the world _ , Iwaizumi thinks. There are no nerves in his tummy. He thinks he could run a marathon after this and still feel at complete ease, and wonders if it has anything to do with Oikawa’s presence and the reassurance it gives despite knowing it shouldn’t. Oikawa is a safety hazard who could set a pool aflame if he tried hard enough.  _ I hate that I’m most comfortable around him. _

He reaches forward to turn up the radio and lets the music fill the space between them. Where Iwaizumi’s arm hangs off the window’s frame it catches the sun, freckles blooming behind peach fuzz and suntan. The weeks following prom had warmed up considerably and had mellowed out to days sitting on hot tarmac and making experimental ice-pop flavours in Matsukawa’s kitchen. It was too hot to play volleyball outside, and even indoors the air conditioning wasn’t good enough to prevent heat-stroke or worse, so the days following up to his last in Miyagi were spent lounging beneath the sun like an old dog. Iwaizumi flexes his fingers against the window’s frame and watches how his knuckles ripple beneath his skin.

He wonders what his weekends will be spent like from now on now he doesn’t have their joint movie-night to look forward to. 

Iwaizumi hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that evening shared on the rooftop in the aftermath of prom. He’ll catch thinking back while himself brushing his teeth, or ironing his clothes, to the smell of punch-drunk Oikawa against his shoulder. 

He hadn’t asked what had caused the break-up between Oikawa and his girlfriend, and doesn’t intend to. He knows he wouldn’t like the answer either way. 

The high of freedom lasts until Oikawa pulls up to the train station. It’s old and built in brick, small enough to take three carriages per train out of their village and into the city for connections. The car’s engine stays running because Iwaizumi knows as soon as it cuts it’ll be time for him to leave. 

“Here it is,” Iwaizumi says, peeking up out of the windscreen. “Hello, Tokyo.”

The silence stretches until Oikawa snivells. Iwaizumi looks over to his left to catch the moment the first tear slips from Oikawa’s eye, beautiful and delicate, before he erupts into a blubbering mess. “Oh, Jesus,” Iwaizumi groans, shuffling over as much as he can with the gear stick digging in his side to deliver a slap to Oikawa’s shoulder. “What are you crying for? Here, blow your nose.”

He takes the tissue from Iwaizumi’s outstretched hand and snores loud enough to shake the frame of the car. When he pulls back he uses the clean side to dab his eyes, mascara crumbling and smudging beneath his eye-bags. “Iwa-chan,” he begins, hiccuping between words, “don’t go.”

“I’ll be back for Christmas.” Iwaizumi snatches the tissue from Oikawa’s hand, feigning annoyance, and dabs the tears away. Oikawa sits, limp and useless, leaning into the pressure of Iwaizumi’s fingers as they catch and swipe the tears from his ruddy cheeks. “God, you’re  _ such _ a drama queen. Are you sure this isn’t your soap-opera call? Crying on cue is a good skill to possess.”

“I’m not crying on cue! I’m very emotional right now!”

“Well, you’re drawing attention and scaring children.”

“I don’t care.” Oikawa wails, falling forward to rest his snotty face in the crook of Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Without you here I’ll look noticeably  _ less _ attractive. You always were the best side-by-side comparison a handsome guy like me could ask for.”

“Handsome? You make babies cry with that face. God forbid your wife ever gives birth.”

“Never.” Oikawa pulls back, drags the hem of his shirt up, and blows his nose into it. Iwaizumi’s face pinches in a scowl at the sight. “Never. Don’t want a wife.”

“You won’t get one with all those girlfriends you toss aside.”

Oikawa shakes his head. He draws in a shaky breath before slapping his cheeks, shocking himself from the mood, and stepping out of the driver’s side. Iwaizumi follows him with his eyes, trying to decipher just what Oikawa hides behind the clouds in his gaze, before joining him on the outside of the car. They both shut the door behind themselves before hoisting up what little clothes Iwaizumi packed into two carry-on bags and his mother’s suitcase. “Did you pack that grey dress shirt?”

“Yep. Well, it’s probably all creased now.”

“Good.” Oikawa takes one of the backpacks and lets Iwaizumi haul the rest. “Wear that at your first frat party.”   


“This isn’t modern America, Oikawa. The only parties you’ll get at medicine school are political ones.”

“Still.” He offers Iwaizumi a wobbly smile. “You look nice in it.”

A flush tips his ears before he can stifle it.  _ Down, boy _ , he curses. “Wow, first complement of the decade. My heart is touched.”

“Let me be nice without repercussion!”

They dissolve into quiet huffs of laughter and passive complaints about the potholes in the road on the descent up to the train station. Given the small size of the building it should take them no time to reach his station. They manage to draw it out to a fifteen minute walk.

When they can’t manage to walk any slower than they already are, Iwaizumi turns to Oikawa, a few meters from the station’s platform. “I’ll miss you. Be—”

He’s tugged into a hug tight enough to squeeze all breath from his lungs. Iwaizumi shifts before wrapping his arms around Oikawa’s torso and holding him, too, letting him exhale against his shoulder and shudder out a few more sobs. “Such a drama queen,” Iwaizumi murmurs, hand running up and down Oikawa’s back to work him through the tears until they subside. “Don’t get any more snot on my shirt than you already have. I still need to be allowed on the train, you know.”

It’s a face he’s painfully familiar with; those puffy eyes, cheeks raspberry-red, lips chapped and nose chaffed. Iwaizumi’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Promise you’ll call me tonight?” Oikawa pleads, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes but leaving his hands on both sides of his neck. 

“Of course I will.” Iwaizumi’s throat protests and squeezes at the thought of putting any more distance between them both.  _ Just a little longer _ , he pleads, hands settled at the soft pouch of fat on either side of Oikawa’s waist.  _ Just let me hold you a little longer. _ “I’ll only be a few miles away.”

“But still!”

“But still,” Iwaizumi agrees. “I’ll miss you, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Let me walk you down to the platform.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes roll, but he relents, perhaps even more eager than Oikawa is. Despite the swell of emotions in his stomach he’s not as expressive as Oikawa: all teary moments are away from prying eyes out of earshot, and he has no doubt that once he’s settled into the dorm tonight the moment will catch up to him and Iwaizumi won’t be able to hold back his own tears, but for now he holds it in. Oikawa’s messy enough for both of them twice-over.

They make it down the stairs. Oikawa shrugs off Iwaizumi’s backpack so it rests by their feet, and at some point, their fingers thread together, waiting in silence for the train to come.

Time seems to stretch on and on and Iwaizumi wonders if maybe it’s been cancelled until the lights peak around the corner and the brakes squeal. Oikawa gives his hand one last little squeeze, snivelling, before Iwaizumi tugs him into a bone-crunching hug and lifts him an inch off of his feet. “I’ll call you,” he says, parting with flushed cheeks and a sheen in his eyes. “And I’ll miss you. Don’t be too happy without me.”   


Oikawa laughs wetly, the heel of his hand swiping his tears from his eyes. “That won’t be too difficult.”

“A liar until the end. God forbid you change that awful personality of yours.”

With one bag on one shoulder, one on the other, and his suitcase in his hands he boards the train.

Iwaizumi seats himself towards the end of the carriage, safely away from the toilets and crying children, and chooses a double seat next to the window. The heel of his palm comes up to swipe a tear from his cheek. As the train pulls off he scrapes up the courage to turn and look. 

The sun is on the brink of setting. Oikawa’s hair looks honey-brown in this lighting. His skin is pale like apple flesh, free of blemishes save the pink beneath his eyes, and he is beyond beautiful. They share a small wave and a mouthed  _ I’ll see you later _ before the carriage begins to shake and he’s whisked off down the track, the sight of Miyagi and home and Oikawa shrinking by each second. 

* * *

Makoto pokes his head around the corner. His keys jangle around his forefinger. “You coming?”

Iwaizumi looks up from the lab reports he’s mulling over, eyes bright despite rolling on his fourth hour sitting at the dinner table. “Not tonight. Maybe next time?”

“You always say that.” Makoto hangs over the door frame, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “You’ll grey by the time you’re thirty if you don’t let yourself have fun. Come on, I know Shin is bringing some girls from the cheer squad over. Don’t think I didn’t see you canoodling with Maki at Halloween!”

He doesn’t even bother to defend himself.  _ Because she’s an ex-volleyball player, too,  _ he thinks.  _ She’s not even my type.  _

“Maybe next time,” Iwaizumi repeats, eyes flitting back down to the page on hydrocarbon chains and alcohol formulations. The numbers have long begun crossing over and Iwaizumi feels less like a sports science student than he does a computer programmer. “Gotta get this work done.”

“You know you’ll end up without a wife at this rate, Iwaizumi.” A sigh. Makoto’s in two of his classes and for all that Iwaizumi’s glad he hasn’t been roomed with a slob, he decidedly doesn’t like being reminded of his love life. Or lack thereof. “A waste of perfectly good genes.”

Instead of making the decision to backpedal he merely raises a hand to bid his roommate goodbye before returning to his work. “Be safe. Wear a condom. Don’t drink the funny juice.” The letters manage to stay apart for a whole ten minutes before Iwaizumi gets double vision and has to physically remove himself from the table to take a break. His eyes burn and everytime he closes them he can see the Milky Way and night sky. 

With a glance to the clock Iwaizumi counts back the hours it must be in Argentina right now. He wonders if Oikawa’s recovering from a night out Iwaizumi can’t find it in him to go to, and wonders if he’s homesick, too. 

* * *

He wonders if the empty threats of  _ you’ll grow grey before you’re thirty _ have started to manifest because he can’t find it in himself to stay up past ten anymore. Which is why, at twelve-am sharp, it’s beyond painful to be woken up. 

With a groan Iwaizumi rolls over, searching blindly for the source of the sound that woke him, desperate to catch enough sleep to make it to morning and get through class without passing out. It takes him three tries of slapping the side table to find his phone, and when he does, he opens it with enough force to detach the screen from the keyboard. “Yeah?”

“ _ Happy Birthday, Iwa-chan! _ ”

“Oikawa.” A groan. Iwaizumi rolls back over to the warmth of his bed and squints at the clock on the wall above. “It’s fucking twelve in the morning.”

_"_ _ Happy Birthday! _ ” he repeats, sunny and excited and everything Iwaizumi knows he’s been missing. He doesn’t even try to deny himself of it. Oikawa’s voice is tinny and choppy through the phone’s speaker but he’s perfect, and Iwaizumi wouldn’t have changed it even if he could. _"_ _ Finally twenty, you grumpy old man. One more year and you’ll look like you’re eligible for a pension _ . _"_

“Har har. Side-splitting humour you’re dishing out. Wonder how long it took you to think up that one.”

_ " It’s my natural whit, charisma, and beauty _ . _"_

“You are the epitome of an egotistical maniac.”

They share a breath of silence. Iwaizumi finds himself suddenly very much awake, deaf to anything but white noise and the sound of Oikawa’s breathing until, through the tiny speaker: “ _ I missed hearing your voice after you wake up _ .”

Iwaizumi exhales shakily. He rolls over onto his back, one hand tossed to the side while the other clutches his phone to his ear. Heat blossoms across his chest and spreads to his fingertips, and Iwaizumi suddenly wonders why he finds himself giddy solely by the tone of Oikawa’s voice over the dozen girls and boys he’s bumped into at parties. Iwaizumi doesn’t realise he isn’t vocalising his thoughts until a small, “ _ Iwa-chan? _ ” draws his attention through the speaker.

“Yes, yes, sorry.” A pause. Iwaizumi’s toes curl under the blanket. It’s a cold June this year. Had they been sharing a bed like they always do during sleepovers Oikawa would have rolled over and pressed his cold toes to Iwaizumi’s thighs by now. He’d have kicked Oikawa where it hurt, they’d bicker, until Oikawa eventually gets his way and they fall onto his childhood mattress and sleep until noon. He remembers mentioning it to Makoto in passing and having a strange look in return. “Twenty, huh. Literally not a teen anymore.”

_ "Y _ _ ou’ve passed as a middle-aged man since fifteen, Iwa-chan. _ ”

“Is that a dig or a compliment?”

_ " _ _ Both _ .”

“Glad to see your ability to read the room has depleted.” He wonders if Oikawa can hear him smiling into the phone. “You got practice today?”

_ " _ _ Done some this morning. I’m eating lunch right now--sorry, can you hear me crunching?" _

“With those horse teeth of yours?”

_ " _ _ Har har. Anyways _ , _"_ There’s a crinkle of plastic in the background. Iwaizumi can picture Oikawa tearing into a whole loaf of milk bread and stuffing his cheeks until they burst, “ _ practice is morning and evening. My legs are in agony. I think my ass may have gotten bigger, which is nice _ .”

“Well, it couldn’t have gotten smaller.”

The phone is torn from Oikawa’s face, and Iwaizumi can hear his offended gasp even from a distance. _"_ _ How dare you! _ ” he cries. “ _ And here I am, trying to be a nice friend and call you on your birthday _ .”

“Yeah, what a good friend you are, calling me at twelve-am.”

“ _ Give it up, Iwa-chan, I know you love it _ .”

“You will be the end of me.”

Oikawa laughs. Iwaizumi finds himself smiling, too, as his cheeks begin to ache. It’s a beautiful feeling to speak with someone without awkward pauses and forced jokes for once. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s experienced an honest one-on-one conversation in person. College is wholly underwhelming and Iwaizumi knows half of that boils down to his unwillingness to attend parties and skip class like everyone else does save a few. The people here are alright and he’s seen a few familiar faces, like Karasuno’s newer captain and one of the wing spikers from Fukurodani, but despite his best efforts the feeling of going out and partying compares bleakly to that of back home. Homesickness, he’s come to learn, is a constant ache. He wishes nothing more than to be seventeen again and getting into trouble with Oikawa, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa during school festivals.    


“ _ How’s college? _ ”

“You sound like my aunt,” Iwaizumi groans. “I  _ literally _ spoke to you yesterday.” He pauses, blinks the sleep from his eyes, and counts backwards. “Less than six hours ago.”

“ _ You’re twenty now! I wanted to be the first one to ask you _ .”

“Well, to tell you the truth: overwhelmingly boring. You’re lucky you chose the non-traditional route of career choices.”

_"I'm_ _ extraordinary, Iwa-chan. You should know that I don’t stick to tradition _ .”

“You said it, not me.”

His phone buzzes against his ear. Iwaizumi pulls away from the call log to squint down to a  _ happy birthday you sexy beast _ notification through text. “You just about beat Matsukawa, well done.”

_ "That _ _ sly bastard, always trying to out-do me. _ ”

“You’re  _ still _ hung up on that? He beat you in arm-wrestling fair and square, though.”

“ _ He licked his hand before we started and told me half-way through. That’s cheating, and you know it _ .”

“Hey, it’s free game out on that battle-field. Not his fault you’re a clean-freak.”

“ _ You’re biased _ .”

“What can I say? I love seeing that smug look on your face get wiped off.”

Oikawa pauses briefly before stuffing his face and speaking with his mouth full: “ _ So, any plans for the big day? _ ”

“Oh, yeah, let me check my very busy itinerary of school, study, and sleep.”   


“ _ Iwa-chan, no! Please don’t tell me you’re wasting your twentieth withering away in your apartment _ .”

“Well, what else would I be doing?”

“ _ Going out? Meeting new people? Having fun? _ ”

“Heart’s not in it. I’d rather spend a day indoors catching up on last week’s Prison Break episode.”

“ _ God, you’re  _ such _ an old man _ .”

“Bed by ten-pm too. Perfect.”

Oikawa lets out a cry through the phone. “ _ This is genuinely upsetting me. Would you at least  _ try _ to have some fun? _ ”

Iwaizumi sighs, tired, catching himself in a yawn before he can help it. “There’s no point. Not to be a Debby Downer, but drinking with a bunch of strangers isn’t what I consider a good evening, especially when half the stuff is spiked. Police end up showing up an hour or so later. It’s a waste of time  _ and _ money. My poor, unemployed college heart can’t take it.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue but drops the conversation, despite his perseverance earlier. Iwaizumi can hear the crinkles of plastic in the background and pictures Oikawa’s messy habits of gathering all his waste into a pile and dumping it into the trash.  _ Heathen _ , he’d say, slapping his wrist before taking over the task and separating the recyclable from the non. Oikawa would roll his eyes, lean his weight on his shoulder, and mutter something about  _ old man _ and  _ fuss-pot _ . “ _ I should let you go, otherwise you’ll  _ really _ be grumpy by tomorrow _ .”

Iwaizumi rolls over onto his side, phone cushioned between his cheek and pillow, and stares at the shadows running across his wall from passing cars. “I don’t mind.”

“ _ You will in the morning _ .  _ I’ve got to get back to practice, too. Did my present reach you safely _ ?”

An Amazon box sits at the base of his bed, taglined  _ From yours truly, _ which he’s vowed to only open in the morning. Makoto had teased Iwaizumi for the rest of the week about a secret girlfriend he won’t admit to having after reading the label. “Is it a bomb?”

“ _ Oh, if only I could send one without being detained _ .”

They settle into a silence comfortable enough that Iwaizumi doesn’t feel the need to fill it. His eyes close, and with enough concentration he can picture himself sharing Oikawa’s tiny childhood bed, limbs tossed over one another, joints stiff from practice. Beneath the blankets they’re hidden from the world, safe, floating in a liminal space free of invasive looks and hushed whispers. Suddenly sleep doesn’t seem so far away any more; there’s almost an aphrodisiac-like effect of sleeping next to Oikawa. He narrows it down to having normalised it during childhood through sleepovers and away-games, when his mind had subconsciously equated safety with the smell of his fabric softener and the sound of his voice. 

Oikawa picks up on the sound of his laboured breathing. “ _ Good-night, Iwa-chan, and happy birthday _ ,” he farewells, lingering only to listen to Iwaizumi drop off to sleep before hanging up. 

In the morning, among the 100-yen trinkets Oikawa's packed in the box, sits a pine green knit jumper. It's soft and smells like home. Iwaizumi wears it for two weeks straight before washing it.

* * *

Argentina is sweltering. The dry heat is enough to make him chaff within minutes of arrival, and Iwaizumi suddenly regrets packing his hat in his suitcase because he knows his scalp will end up burnt after an afternoon in the sun. As he hangs on to the bus’ handrail taking him from terminal to terminal Iwaizumi thinks Tokyo’s weather feels much less temperate than it does arctic, and here, dressed in clothes that are far too heavy for this climate, he feels much less like a tourist than he does a hermit emerging from under a rock. 

The bus is poorly air conditioned so the step to move from the parking lot to building does little to cool off the sweat gathered in his hairline, but even so, the warmth is a nice change despite how intense it is. Back in Miyagi there’s a brief window of time during August that they get weather like this; the type to dry up birdbaths, hot enough to melt tarmac, which Oikawa has to suffer through every year. “I’m a daisy,” he’d say, “best in tepid conditions. Iwa-chan, get me my water.” He wonders how he’s fairing having to live underneath the blazing heat.

The rush for baggage is hectic. Iwaizumi snatches the first suitcase that looks like his from the conveyor belt before he reads the tag and puts it back, doing the rounds until he finds his actual one. He’s a hair trigger away from combustion. Both he and Oikawa have face-timed over the past two years but haven’t met up face-to-face since Iwaizumi’s visit home for Christmas during his first year at college. With finances tight neither have managed to scrape up enough money to fly home until Iwaizumi won on a scratch card and bought an airplane ticket to Buenos Aires. 

That was Wednesday. It’s now Friday, and Iwaizumi hasn’t even told his mother where he is.

His steps quicken once he enters the space of the main terminal. Iwaizumi knows he must look like a desperate mess, obviously a tourist with how he has his luggage clutched tight enough to snap the handle. He feels like he’s sat back on the plane and it’s taking liftoff with how his stomach decides to flip. Facetime calls have been difficult given different time zones and schedules. Iwaizumi thinks he’s began to lose memory of how Oikawa’s smile looks.

Then, like a beacon in the night, Iwaizumi meets his gaze through the crowds. Everything else fades to colourless shapes around Oikawa, who stands out like a rose in a patch of daisies, looking like everything Iwaizumi has wanted and loved for the past lifetime.

Humidity has drawn Oikawa's curls out until he looks like an electrocuted cat. His outfit is horrific; colours clashing and patterns blending. He’s wearing sandals over odd socks. Iwaizumi finds that his feet are moving without prompt, racing towards him, bags falling half-way on his sprint. He crashes chest-to-chest with Oikawa, dragging him up off his feet despite their height difference to crush him in a hug. Oikawa squeals, arms wound tight around Iwaizumi’s neck in a vice-like grip. 

He still smells like the same brand of moisturiser he’s been using since middle-school to treat his acne. Iwaizumi breathes in and wraps his arms tighter and earns a soft  _ oof _ from Oikawa as the air is squeezed from his ribs inside out. 

“You’re going to break me!” Oikawa cries, elated, cheek pressed against the soft cotton over Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“You’re a little squidgy-er than last time so I don’t reckon I’ll crack you.” An offended gasp, and a twisting pinch at the back of his shoulder-blades has Iwaizumi feeling like he’s just come home after a lifetime away from it. The surge of adrenaline has his chest drawn tight and his laughter on the verge of tears. He finds himself holding Oikawa until they gather attention and the crowd has to part around them to move from terminal to terminal.

With gentle hands he pulls back from the hug and reaches up to cup Oikawa’s cheeks. They’re soft and sweaty beneath the skin of his palm. Oikawa beams, his own hands resting over Iwaizumi’s, equally as warm but familiar and reassuring. Iwaizumi clocks the extra few centimeters between them, and makes a mental note to  _ not _ comment on that. “You alright?” he asks, thumb smoothing the paper-thin skin of Oikawa’s under eyes. It’s the touchiest he’s been for the past decade. Iwaizumi hasn’t even touched a girl like this before, let alone someone he finds himself regularly wanting to throw head-first into the sea, but the magnetism between skin and skin makes it all the more impossible to stop and pull away. His thumb draws a centle circle in the dip of his under eye. 

“Just about.” With a soft kiss to his nose Oikawa finally parts fully. “Come on! Let me show you the beach. I know you’ll just love it. And, oh, I also have to show you my bike! Don’t worry, I got a kiddy seat just for you. Perfectly Iwa-chan sized!”

Argentina is beautiful. Everything is in shades of creme and yellow, with narrow roads, stray dogs sleeping on sidewalks, and Spanish music playing from shop windows. On the contrary to what Iwaizumi had been expecting they speak very little, arms clasped together and hips bumping every now and again. There’s no need to fill in the silence. Iwaizumi doesn’t even quite know what to say, with how impromptu the visit was and all, and is just about coming to terms with the amount of money he could’ve spent paying off his car instead of converting it to Argentine peso. 

He takes one look at Oikawa and decides that it’s all worth it.

They share a lemonade on the boardwalk by the sea. It’s shimmering bright enough to warrant sunglasses. “Should we go in?”

“Let’s get you unpacked first,” Oikawa suggests. “I know how tricky sand can be to get out of socks and toes.”

Oikawa’s apartment is a small thing two stories above a deli; one bedroom one bathroom with more windows than there is drywall. Iwaizumi has only seen it in passing glimpses during Skype calls and poor-resolution photos from Oikawa’s phone but even then those didn’t do it justice. The place feels like a reflection of him; photos of Seijoh matches won hang the walls along with tapestries and potted plants. Iwaizumi thumbs a grainy photo taken by Oikawa’s older sister during his fourteenth birthday at a pool party where he’s mid-cry, shielding himself from a water balloon thrown by Hanamaki. To the side Iwaizumi passes him the stock, and Matsukawa is laid back in the water, half-asleep. A smile pulls at Iwaizumi’s lips at the memory. 

“Do you want anything to eat?” Oikawa asks, drawing Iwaizumi from his trip down memory lane. From behind him the view of the sunset is crystal clear and it reflects in his hair. He’s bathed in oranges and peaches and doesn’t seem to notice just how Iwaizumi is looking at him. 

“No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

As Oikawa disappears back into the kitchen he tugs his suitcase through the hallway and sets it wheels-down in the living room. Iwaizumi looks to the couch, then the archway leading to the kitchen, and back to the couch. “Want me to just unpack here?”

“Hm?” Oikawa peeks his head back around the corner, a slice of buttered bread in his hand. “On the sofa?”   


“Yes.”

”If you want to. Or, we can share.”

A pause. “You don’t mind?”

Oikawa laughs through his nose. It’s ugly, and warms Iwaizumi from the inside out. “For all my charm and good looks, you often forget how generous I am, Iwa-chan. Besides, it’s what we’ve always done. I also don’t want your sweaty body ruining my Italian leather.”

Relief rushes through Iwaizumi like a shot of adrenaline. He hoists his suitcase back up and carries it through the hallway to the room at the end, nudging it open with his hip. Oikawa’s bedroom is much like the rest of the apartment; clean colours and bright, airy windows. A long window stretches from floor-to-ceiling on one side of the room while the other side leads out into a tiny balcony. He finds himself setting his suitcase down near the doors in favour of gazing out into the view of the town. No wonder Oikawa’s fallen in love with the place. Iwaizumi thinks he’s halfway there, too. 

Without permission he opens the doors to the balcony and steps out. The air smells like seawater and sand, and if he squints past his poor eyesight he can see fishing boats peppering the ocean. Iwaizumi braces himself against the railing as he leans over to get a better view of the town.

It’s almost overwhelming. Iwaizumi doesn’t want to dwell too much on just how perfect this all feels; how Oikawa’s life seems to be miles ahead of his own; how he’s happy, living somewhere that doesn’t make him feel claustrophobic. He’d been successful at Seijoh but here he’s in a whole new realm and it shows. His skin positively glows. He’s never seen him smile so wide before. Iwaizumi wants to be jealous, knows he  _ should _ be, but he can’t do anything but express relief that at least one of them has made it out the other side of adulthood unscathed.

He nudges the door shut behind himself before reaching into the pocket of his shorts and pulling out a packet of cigarettes that’s nearly finished. With the flick of his lighter he lights the end and takes a drag. It does something to ease the tension coiled in his gut but not enough to have him forget just why he’s come out here in the first place. 

“Naughty, Iwa-chan.”

“Ah, shit.” Iwaizumi lowers the cigarette from his lips and meets Oikawa’s gaze with apology. “Sorry. Yeah, nasty habit I picked up in college.”

Oikawa tuts under his breath, playful. He’s got a glass of water in his hand that he sips evenly, but eventually sets down on the side in favour of joining Iwaizumi out on the balcony. “For a sports science student, you sure are bad at taking your own advice.”

“I don’t think I need a rogue player giving me advice.”   


“Rogue?” Oikawa barks a laugh. “I didn’t  _ belong _ to Japan, Iwa-chan, even if I would look  _ spectacular _ in those colours.”

“If you were a cow you’d milk yourself for all that you’re worth.”

“My milk would be premium.” He leans back to side-step into his room before returning with a blanket, duvet slung over his shoulders. He’s taller now than he was in Seijoh so it only just about brushes his ankles but even so, like this, he looks impossibly smaller; delicate, Iwaizumi thinks, splattered in freckles and tanlines. There’s a thin sheen of oil on his cheekbones from the heat of the evening. He’s still the same Oikawa who spends too much money on cuticle oil and phone cases. Iwaizumi adores him.

“You’re right, though.”

“About what?”

“That it’s unhealthy.” He raises his cigarette to his lips and takes a short drag before stubbing it out on the balcony’s railing and flicking it to an empty plant pot to his left. 

“Look at you—all rugged and grown up. Smoking like some aged detective.” Oikawa saunters closer and reaches out, blanket still thrown over his shoulders, to bring Iwaizumi into it. His hands lift both corners to hold behind Iwaizumi’s neck and they settle against his tacky skin. “You must be a heartbreaker at college, even with your baboon face.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. He hated having to look up to Oikawa during highschool and he hates it now. “The only thing I’ll break is my mother’s heart if she finds out.”

“Little rebellious Iwa-chan.”

“ _ Big _ rebellious Iwa-chan.”

“Mini.”

“ _ Average.” _

“Miniscule!”

Iwaizumi’s head turns to gaze back out to the streets of Buenos Aires. Oikawa’s eyes stay where they are, trained on the angles of his face; the way his jaw has sharpened and his receding teenage acne. Oikawa thumbs at the hairs on the base of his neck and earns a shudder in return. “I can see why you fell in love with the place.”

“There’s no other like it,” Oikawa agrees, finally shifting his gaze from Iwaizumi to the city ahead. As the sun dips below the horizon the evening air grows chilly, and Iwaizumi is suddenly very grateful for the blanket over his shoulders. “It’s the type of view you never get bored of.”

“I can imagine. The city never sleeps, after all.”

“Is Tokyo like that?”

“Far beyond it. It’s hyper-awake during the nights. Some mornings I’ll wake up at three to a wise-guy playing drums in the flat above me.”

“Ouch.” Oikawa grins. “God forbid he experience the wrath of grumpy Iwa-chan.”

“If I didn’t have to experience the wrath of my  _ mother _ for getting kicked out of college I’d have said a few things or two by now.”

Oikawa laughs at that. He shuffles a little closer until the tips of their shoes bump and they’re sharing body heat. Iwaizumi, already exhausted from the jet-lag, finds it increasingly difficult to stay awake as Oikawa returns to combing his fingers delicately through the hairs at the base of Iwaizumi’s head. His head tilts to lean against Oikawa’s wrist, eyes closing, as his opposite hand reaches up to smooth Iwaizumi’s hair from his forehead. “Sleepy Iwa-chan, huh?”

A brief yawn. “Sorry. Long day.”

“I’m not surprised. You have the staying power of an old dog.”

“You look and smell like one.”

“First cow, now dog? Gosh, Iwa-chan. I’m glad to see your itinerary of animals is as extensive as your dating history.”

“As if you're the one to talk. You break poor girls’ hearts quicker than you have the chance to even learn their names.”

“Ouch. Right in my feelings.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes roll. He reaches up to flick Oikawa’s temple, who recoils as if he’d been shot, and parts from their embrace. “Let’s go to bed. Someone needs their beauty sleep.”

“You don’t have to project, Iwa-chan, it’s okay. We all know you’re ugly.”

“Rather be ugly on the outside than the inside.”

As they tumble into bed moments later, still half-clothed and sweaty from the day’s sun, Iwaizumi can’t help but feel somewhat whole for the first time in a long time. He shudders at the pressure of Oikawa’s hands tucked against his chest, his own thrown over his waist, and wishes they’d never have to part. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t like being vulnerable but here, bared open for Oikawa to take and use and hold, he doesn’t think he minds it so much.  _ It’s not weird, _ he tells himself. Even though his roommate had given him a strange look about it, even though those mothers had wrinkled their nose at the sight during days at the cinema. They aren’t ‘like that’; they’ve never  _ been _ anything other than just Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Even though he physically hurts like he’s bleeding at the sight of Oikawa with someone else, Iwaizumi stays where he is, because he’d rather love than to not love at all.  _ Even if he doesn’t see it like that, _ Iwaizumi thinks, his hand coming up to brush a stray curl from Oikawa’s temple,  _ he’s all I have.  _

* * *

Outside the weather is blustering. For all that Iwaizumi loves nothing more than the sun and warmth and Summer, he doesn’t think he minds Autumn all too much either. Everyone has a hidden fondness for the things that follow the yellowing leaves; with how he can dress in a sweater without baking from the inside out, and the delight of returning to a heated blanket after a miserable day of classes. He’s always liked spicier foods too, which seems to make its rounds on the bridge from Autumn to Winter. Even those disgusting pumpkin lattes Oikawa would hoover down begin getting sold around campus. Iwaizumi tried one just for the sake of it and had his teeth ache so bad he thought he'd managed to get cavities in all of them. 

Maybe what crystallizes his new fondness for Autumn is the added presence of his new roommate. Iwaizumi is beyond thankful to know he isn’t the only one within the college campus who prefers quiet nights poring over work instead of drinks at a bar far too loud. Ennoshita is a whole year younger than him but acts like an old man who’s just about had enough of his grandkids. Iwaizumi seeks a place similar to home in him.

“No, I think you’ve got it messed up.”

“Huh? Where?”

“Here.” He flips the page, searches briefly, then points down to a laminated diagram. “So, when the thigh muscles contract…”

From his peripheral vision Iwaizumi catches sight of Ennoshita breaking his train of thought, looking up to the head of the table. He follows his line of sight to Makoto, who’s dressed up for the nines, wearing that pleading look he always has on whenever he’s about to ask Iwaizumi to borrow some money. He looks over at the librarian who shoots him daggers before going back to Iwaizumi. “Hajime, you coming out tonight?”

He almost wants to roll his eyes.  _ Be kind _ , he chides, biting his tongue,  _ at least he’s inviting you _ . “No can do, sorry. Studying.”

Makoto’s gaze flattens. It moves from Iwaizumi, dressed down to a pullover pilling at the neck and hem, to Ennoshita, who looks like he’s on the verge of dropping off to sleep. His gaze is pleading. “Help me out here.”

“Help  _ you _ out? I don’t need convincing,” Iwaizumi points out. “My answer is no.”

Beneath the table Ennoshita nudges his knee with his own. “Go on,” encourages, offering a soft smile. “Go have fun. The test isn’t until next Thursday, after all.”

“He’s right,” Makoto chimes in. “It’s a Friday! No classes tomorrow, right?”

Iwaizumi’s mouth twists. He doesn’t like going out even when he knows it’ll only be for a few hours, but the pressure of having two sets of eyes weighing down on him pushes Iwaizumi over the edge. He caves like a nagged mother. “Alright,” he says, earning a whoop from Makoto who’s quickly shushed by the librarian. “So long as you come along, too, Chikara.”

“What, me?” A flush colours his cheeks. “I’m not exactly a party animal.”

“Neither am I. We can wallow together.”

He studies Iwaizumi with a furrow in his brow. Iwaizumi nudges his leg back beneath the table. 

Ennoshita rises, taps his papers into a stack, and lays them face-down on the table. “Fine. What’s the address?”

He decides against dressing up save for the change in shirt. Inside his cubby wardrobe, pressed and hung, hangs the same shirt Oikawa had told him he looked best in. He reaches out to touch the sleeve and feels a frown pulling on his face. Even miles away, preoccupied above whatever distraction Iwaizumi could offer him, Oikawa’s still on his mind. Iwaizumi tries not to think about how his messages have been ignored for the last few hours. “He’s just busy,” he says, the grey fabric of his dress shirt crinkling beneath his pinch. It’s said more as a hope to convince himself over anything else but even beyond his petty worries Iwaizumi knows that Oikawa’s plans are bigger than he is. It’s less of a delusion than it is a fact because Oikawa’s always been bigger than Iwaizumi: always been the extrovert when it came to making new friends and joining new clubs. Even despite playing up to the bossy attitude he’d shown over Oikawa, it’s always been he who’s lost; wandering aimlessly through life until he finds himself somewhere he fits. Iwaizumi thinks of Oikawa, who had been accepted at first sight by his classmates, and allows himself to be jealous for just a moment he won’t let himself acknowledge in the coming days. 

He buttons up the shirt in the mirror and looks at himself. Iwaizumi doesn’t quite know exactly who’s staring back. 

Brash like he always is Makoto pokes his head around the corner of Iwaizumi’s bedroom door. “Hey, we’re leaving,” he calls, paused only to take in the sight in front of him. “Wow, alright, you look _ good _ . Who the hell are you trying to impress?”

“Myself,” Iwaizumi replies. He picks up his wallet and phone. “Let’s go.”

He loses both Ennoshita and Makoto halfway through the first hour, as well as his way through the house. Iwaizumi doesn’t know exactly what he’s been mixing but the tips of his fingers are numb and he feels caught somewhere between crying and screaming.  He’s upstairs trying to find his way down to the stairway, feeling his way along the wall of the frat house for guidance, when a hand catches him by the small of the back. 

Iwaizumi knows he’s had one too many cups of whatever the hell’s in the kitchen already and even though he knows he isn’t small by any means, Iwaizumi can’t help the small bubble of panic that swells in his gut. Through the dim flashing lights of the strobe in the hallway Iwaizumi looks up to the face of a boy who must’ve only been a year or two older than him who, even after being acknowledged, still keeps his hand over the pressed grey fabric of his shirt.

Iwaizumi recognises him vaguely as one of Makoto’s friends. He’s been staring at him for the majority of the evening, and for as much as Iwaizumi doesn’t mind meeting new people within a group, he’s never been the one to get approached before, let alone by himself. Even in Seijoh, standing out as the ace and vice captain, he was never the one to get sought out.  _ It’s always been Oikawa, _ he thinks,  _ and I’ve always been the friend to stand by to make sure nothing bad happens. _

Iwaizumi knows he’s out of his element. He isn’t built for this, has never  _ been _ built to handle stranger’s affection like other people can. He must have looked a sight because suddenly the pressure on his back eases and the boy holds his hands up in defeat. “Sorry,” he says, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

His hair is dyed blonde and he’s taller than Iwaizumi by a few centimeters. He’s good looking. “It’s fine,” Iwaizumi reassures, treading lightly because he’s drunk and decidedly doesn’t want to get in a fight with someone when he can’t tell his right from left. “Sorry, I’m a ‘lil tipsy.”

The boy laughs. Iwaizumi swallows around the lump in his throat because  _ wow _ , it’s attractive, and he’s being hit on, he thinks, for the first time in years. “No worries,” he says, leaning against the wall with his shoulder. The hand that had previously caught Iwaizumi by the small of his back strays to his hip. Iwaizumi forces himself not to let the surge of anxiety in his blood ruin this moment.  _ It’s fine _ , he insists.  _ I came here to let loose, after all _ . “You got a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend—no, uh. No.”

The boy’s brow quirks. “Boyfriend?”

A pause. Then, “No.”

“What’s a guy like you doing at a party all alone, then?” The dull pressure of fingers against his bare hip draws circles. They’re clammy and warm. Iwaizumi usually trusts his gut, which currently sits in knots at the pit of his stomach, but his ears are on fire and the rational part of his brain feels useless against the vodka in his system. “Lonely?”

“Not really, no.” Iwaizumi reaches down to brush the hand from his hip. He watches a pout form on the boy’s lips, and it reminds him so much of Oikawa’s when he’d stop playing with his hair or when he would come back with chocolate ice cream instead of strawberry when they’d run out. 

_ I shouldn’t be like this _ , he thinks, his chest constricting at the thought of running away from the one opportunity he’s being given to finally break free of the hold Oikawa has on him.  _ I don’t know why I’m like this. Why can't I be more like him? _

Iwaizumi can feel the pressure migrate from his hips to somewhere against his legs. He gropes blindly for something to grasp onto, fingers weak and slippery, and manages to knock a painting on to the floor. They shift, squeeze, and burst the dam Iwaizumi’s been desperately trying to keep under control for the last few months.

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi says, raising up onto his feet from where he’d slid down. There’s bile burning its way up his throat. He repeats, “Sorry,” unsure of just who he’s replying to but unbothered if it doesn’t reach any ears. The descent down the stairs is messy and he’s sure he’s missed a few with how his ankle aches like it’s been rolled. The evening air hits him like a freight train. Iwaizumi doubles over on the patio and heaves, gasping for air like a fish out of water, in a lame attempt to get some oxygen back to his brain. 

He’s heaving into the speakerphone before he registers just where he is. There’s a streetlight above and the smell of rainwater and his shoes are damp, he thinks, trying to focus on anything past the buzzing inside his head. Iwaizumi collapses back onto the park bench and wrings his hands together as his mobile phone sits cradled between his jaw and shoulder. 

He sits, waiting for a voice even when the rings move to the answerphone. He doesn’t move until the phone turns itself off and he realises Oikawa hadn’t picked up his call in what could be the first time in his life.

From over his shoulder the leaves rustle against the pathway drawing through the park. “Hey,” Ennoshita says, shoulders hunched against the cold. He shuffles closer and takes a seat on the bench next to Iwaizumi. “I followed you out here.”

“Huh,” Iwaizumi replies. He reaches up to the warmth on his cheeks and realises he’s crying. "He didn't pick up."

There’s a gentle pressure against his shoulder. Ennoshita’s hair is soft and he smells nice; it does something to loosen the knot in Iwaizumi’s chest. He exhales a shaky breath and tilts back against the weight. “Oikawa?"

"Yeah," Iwaizumi says. He blinks against the tears in his eyes. They keep falling, rolling down his cheeks to darken his dress shirt and draw blotchy patches on the trousers where he'd been touched and groped.

"You'll be okay," Ennoshita says. He shakes his fingers out of his gloves and slips them over Iwaizumi's hands. He lets him, numb and unresponsive. The wool begins to thaw the cold from his fingertips. "We aren't made for this sort of thing."

"No." Iwaizumi's fingers flex inside the gloves. A breath weighing a thousand tons works its way up his chest and out into the night's air, freeing itself from the tight confines of his ribcage. Iwaizumi takes his first whole breath and shakes out a small sob. "Can we just go home?"

Ennoshita, with gentle hands, eases him up from the bench. His fingers come up to swipe the tears from Iwaizumi's eyes. He's warm and gentle and a reassuring pillar in what Iwaizumi feels like is the neverending abyss he's floating in. "Of course we can."

Later, curled up on the couch with reruns of _House_ playing on their apartment's television, Iwaizumi drifts off for the first time in months without the nightmare of Oikawa and his girlfriend spinning around the prom's floor, arm in arm. Tonight it's just himself stood in the empty gymnasium, silent, dark, and lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry if this is really quite messy? it's been written for weeks and i've checked over it countless times but you know how it is with writing--i end up changing one thing and forgetting something else
> 
> i've hit quite a rough patch with myself so i don't know how long it'll be before the next update. it's already pre-written, just needs some beta'ing done!  
> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> as someone who competes both nationally and internationally for their country i've always felt more than just a love for haikyuu because of how it depicts someone beating their insecurities to get where they are (as someone very small in a sport full of tall people, we cannot help but kin hinata). but especially oikawa. he's such an important and cherished character to me, as someone who sees myself in him, and he's always been my favourite. i wrote this in homage for his birthday and hope i have done him justice.  
> thank you for an amazing 8 years furudate-senpai! happy belated birthday, oikawa-san!


End file.
